Cyclone in the room.

The little typhoon showed her annoyance or anger in many different ways. I had classified her anger on a very high level into (a) mild (b) moderate (c) severe and (4) very severe.

She had varied array of activities (rather assaults) depending on her anger level. Her target (usually me) would have to brave him/her self to face the impending assault.

The tool of fury would be carefully selected from her arsenal, depending on the subject or object of her anger

The list of tools she had ran like this: Sharpened pencils, erasers, scissors, arrows, toys and building blocks.

Mild anger would result in least physical damage and usually subsided with throwing down a pencil or toppling a toy

Moderate anger would result in tearing a section of the newspaper or sharpening a dozen pencils one after the other - needed or not

Severe anger manifested in unpredictable ways – for she could pick up an arrow or a scissors and weighs the most suitable menacing option to impact damage.

The very severe category anger was feared by most – as it was likely to inflict injury or damage to the targeted persons / objects.

Sometimes this categorized anger dissipates with the tipping of a load of neatly stacked books on to the floor or dismantling the building blocks and flinging them over the compound wall. In the extreme form, she chose either the scissors or the arrows.

Once I had the taste of her unbridled anger. The genesis for that situation was partly my own making, albeit, inadvertently. On wearing a new dress for her birthday, she had come twice to my room to give grant me a personal audience and possibly a photo-op.

Let me start by saying that day was a horrid day; the instances that occurred previously are as follows.

I was seriously trying to compose a draft on the computer. Unforced errors like failing to press control “S” and inadvertently pressing control “W” and clicking “No” without reading the displayed panel, did me in.

After calming down from the effects of these debacles, I somehow managed to recollect most of the sentences and finished the draft.

I felt sore that I could not recollect certain sentences. My own clumsiness had caused the loss of the dear sentences.

At the end of the day, with hope in mind, that I could recover those magical sentences, I brought home the draft in the form of print out. Trusting my sub-conscious mind to aid in jolting my conscious memory to action, I slept early. Nothing materialized

Morning walk, resulted in covering of extended distance and time to mull over lost sentences, also produced the same “nothing”

This struggle went on for two more days. I kept on correcting the draft a dozen times and then it struck. Like stored water gushing through the sluice gates, the forgotten magical sentences surfaced!

What for would I wait? I furiously started re-writing the entire draft, embellishing it with now-found magical sentences. In one go, I was able to complete the fruits of my labor in three foolscap papers.

This brings us back to the part where Tantrum Sundari came to show off her new dress.

I was admiring my handy work, when I heard an impatient rap on the door. Without waiting for a reply, the little typhoon entered and banged the door shut.

I realized the first sign of trouble. Her face was taut and appeared like a possessed devil. This was indeed the second sign of brewing trouble.

She sat on the arm rest of the sofa, ignoring available space by my side. I knew from experience that this was deep or severe trouble and held fingers crossed for the events to unfold.

Small talks and jokes did not ease the tension in the air. She stared straight and remained silent, still under the weight of pent up anger.

This standoff definitely puzzled me and after the interminable wait, it got solved by itself. She unwillingly came down from her perch, sat by my side leaving enough space between us.

Even then I could not find out the cause for her stony silence and the magnitude of anger. (I wasn’t aware of her search for me)

She proceeded to survey all the objects placed on the sofa and finally targeted the draft papers. Silently she went to the side table and picked up the scissors.

I was mentally preparing to ward off the fencing attack (I was thinking that she may stab me with the scissors). Nothing forewarned me about her actual intent!

Before I could sense and react, she gathered my draft papers and shredded them in to strips. She executed the task within seconds with surgeon-like precision.

I sat speechless. (How else could I react?)

Having spent her anger, she gleefully started playing with the paper festoons.

Needless to say, I sported the stony look and stern face for days together. For a change, this time around, I commenced the cold war.

Tantrum Sundari.

On some days, the little typhoon would walk in to my room in a pleasant mood. Alas, the flag of peace would be up only for half an hour. During this period, she would willingly, listen and do all the tasks told.

Suddenly, she would become a rebel. Persistence with coaching (I was trying to be a teacher to the one who also wanted to be my teacher) resulted in a walk out. 

Her modus operandi was to gather all her belongings, shove them in a bag and leave the room.

The degree of annoyance could be gauged by the force with which she banged the door shut. The room vibrated as though it was in an active seismic zone. I experienced these mild to moderate tremors once in a week

For a day or two she would stop visiting me. At the end of these cold wars, the spent typhoon would meekly walk into my room.

In making an attempt in waving the olive branch, she would gently rap on the door; seek permission to enter to start the next cycle of war and peace!

I nicknamed her “Tantrum Sundari”, had you weathered these storms, you would indeed agree with me.

With experience I could sense the beginning of the next episode of tantrum - she would decide and change upon our agreed set of tasks like an auto-wallah changing lanes in rush hour traffic.

This incident occurred about 2 years ago, just then we were getting acquainted and she attended a wedding reception in our house. My wife and daughter tried to engage and humor her. Tantrum Sundari did not even smile and remained morose.

All that changed when she saw me from a distance – a familiar face in a crowd of strangers. She broke in to a broad smile and posed for a group photograph. This gave a lasting impression of our bond - to my family. Needless to say, from then on, my family members started gifting her dress, a toy or a vanity bag.

Though I was the courier, she took great pleasure in showing me the gifts as though I was not aware of them. She followed that practice even for such gifts presented by others.

Sometimes she would smile and pose for a photo and if she did not like it the smile would vanish from the face.

When I narrated all these little things to my family, they found out that both of us were sharing the same month of birth. They simply concluded that being the binding reason!

This makes me recollect what happened a few day s ago; I had come back with a new dress for her birthday.

She had a scheme to please everyone and for that important day (isn’t birthdays the most important day for any child) she wore the dress presented by her parents and gold ornaments gifted by the grandparents.

The next day evening she wore the birthday dress that we had presented her and came to my room to show how beautiful the dress looked on her.. I had been out for my evening walk. Within the span of an hour she had made three such visits wearing that new dress, hoping to catch me in my room.

I found the door ajar when I came back. Sensing that someone had come in my absence, I looked around for the tell tale signs left by the intruder.

I found that the sketch, stuck on the wall (Read Wall of Honor) was missing and the intruder could have been none other than Tantrum Sundari.

On a detailed enquiry (read talk with Tantrum’s mother) the cat was tumbling out of the bag. Not finding me in my room, she became annoyed, returned home and threw up tantrums on every conceivable silly thing. Fed up with that behavior her mother gave her a dose of verbal medicine.

Stung by bitter criticism she had re-entered my room and tore off the Wall of Honor, a sketch she drove me complete.

So what happens now? You guessed right, a fresh cycle of ‘severe’ cold war.

P.S. : 'Sundari' means 'Beautiful'.

The Wall Of Honor

The young typhoon was just 5 years old, but she knew how to get by. When I first met her she was about 3 years old, little shy but haven’t we heard of ‘Calm before storm’.

She would always be in a tearing hurry- an origami enthusiast. Cutting and folding paper comes to her naturally. Whatever be the end product of her labor, she would confidently declare it as a bird, boat, tree, frog, ghost or a whale. She likes whales and spins yarns about them as though she had actually played with one.

When it came to spinning yarns, she could make you eat out of her hand. Her imagination was boundless - Ghost who knocked at her door, kidnappers she apprehended, dinosaur she had played with, giant wheel rides & para -jumps she made… oh it was an endless progression of her imagination. Thanks to electronic media – she stays glued to the IB (Idiot Box), literally without blinking an eyelid – this might be the source of her imagination.

Try to teach her something she would throw up such resistance that made you think ‘why bother’.

When her mood permits, she would be a willing student, who comes prepared with writing pad, dozens of pencils, countless erasers and sharpeners. This is how self reliant she was.

I tried teaching her my vernacular tongue (Tamil) and it instantly appealed to her curiosity. Names of colors, objects and food, soon became her favorite words.

One day she asked for a printed primer book. I wanted to start with the alphabets but she insisted up on writing the simple words. The way she proceeded to write was awesome!

She would instruct me to open the page and hold it at a readable distance. She would look at the word intently for a second or two and then literally draw the strokes from memory.

She attempted to reproduce the loops, curves, short bends and U bends of typical alphabets. She had a peculiar way of writing – would begin at the finishing stroke and somehow travel to the beginning stroke!

She found ingenious short cuts to write certain alphabets using English letters! For her it was another type of drawing.

What else I could have done except to admire her ingenuity? Even though certain alphabets were swollen or elongated or looking comical. Needless to say these sessions were fun filled and awesome.

Of her many talents, I was awestruck by her ability in– drawing, coloring, painting and finally sticking the art work with tape or gum.

Each act mentioned was executed with a rare confidence. Somewhere in her active brain she must have had this notion – to be self-reliant.

The hand, eye and vocal cord coordination has to be seen to be believed.

Her school holidays were my punishment days. She designed various entertainments Program’s to test my skills and patience.

Hair-splitting and verbal duel, between us would be the curtains down ceremony for that day. For the next two or three days that cold war would continue. Then the typhoon would calmly enter my room meekly uttering “might I come in?” without bothering for a yes or no answer!

Then started my actual ordeal, She might have thought of this strategy (read torture) after considerable thinking. She assigned me the task of drawing a sketch.

She then proceeded to give voluble instructions on what she expected me to do – a Picasso art. The central theme was ghosts catching children, tying them up in ropes and keeping them prisoners in a palace having numerous rooms.

That was a very tall order and needed a Himalayan effort for a person like me who abhorred sketches and drawings. What was apparent was that she had come prepared for such an eventuality – she had a plastic (glue) tube to threaten me with.

Minutes ticked by, sketches made were rejected on one count or the other. Renewed efforts produced a better sketch but the lady typhoon was not satisfied. Emboldened by my failed efforts, she started to use the “cane” (by that time she had assumed the role of a teacher). That session went for an hour.

Finally by the end of two and a half grueling hours, she halfheartedly approved the work, yet had a stunning observation. She was unable to differentiate the gender of those imprisoned children. I literally did an Ostrich act - buried my head in to the ground, embarrassed.

To express her half-hearted appreciation, she stuck the art work, with scotch tape on the wall – without asking my permission or help.

To me that sketch became ‘The wall of honor’ presented by a grudging (envious) and an impish (mercurial) child. We both share the same month of birth!

'Snake Dance' and 'Pop Music'.

 This episode, which had happened years back illustrates the fact that human element will always play a role in any activity.

In a work place there is no dearth for earthly humor as this episode illustrates.

Prof. X, dim-wit, new entrant and man-Friday (mF) for company were discussing about commissioning a pulveriser.  Prof. X said “Boys, let ourselves do the needed works” To emphasize the importance of the work on hand, he gave an extempore lecture on particle surface, surface moisture and his pet theory about anti-caking agents etc. Thus electrified, the team proceeded to put together the mechanical assemblies. If a fastener was short mF ran to the next facility (43 meters) to fetch it. If a gasket was needed again mF ran another 43 meters. Similar exercises were given to him (you see Prof. X liked to handle one issue at a time) to collect a hose, hose clamp, “T” couplers, pressure gauge and flanged sleeves. Like a mule driver, Prof. X made his team to sweat it out.

The time came for a test run (CBM) before inviting a VIP to declare the equipment commissioned. Prof.X looked at his watch and said “Now it is 1130 and by 1200 hrs we will have the 1st dry run”.

At the stroke of noon, the signal was given to open the compressed air supply line to the pulveriser. With a vroom the equipment started the pulverizing action. Elation was painted all over Prof. X’s sizeable face. Dim-wit, New entrant and mF stood close by not to miss the excitement.

Five minutes passed without any hiccup. Suddenly, there was a whoosh and out came the temporarily tethered air supply hose – rearing like the hood of an enraged king cobra.

Exactly at that instant, Mr. Strict (safety officer) entered the scene, took in the details and left in a hurry.

Ten minutes later, Prof. X and Dim-wit were subjected to a verbal grinding and could barely escape with their professional integrity intact. “Pop” music was still ringing in their ear drums.

[The narrative though set in a specific environment, could have taken place in a Fine-Chemical's manufacturing unit. This setting helps the reader spin their own yarn :)]